


Man, I Feel Like A Woman

by Aramley



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Genderswap, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-22
Updated: 2009-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-05 00:42:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aramley/pseuds/Aramley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rafa wakes up with a problem</p>
            </blockquote>





	Man, I Feel Like A Woman

Rafa woke up needing to piss, which wasn't unusual, and it wasn't until he got to the bathroom and discovered a fundamental problem with the usual workings of this morning ritual that he realised something was terribly, terribly wrong.

_Where the hell was his dick?!_

There was a mirror on the wall above the sink, and Rafa stumbled to it, but there was something wrong with it, because instead of showing Rafa his own face, it was showing the face of a woman.

Nightmare. He was having a nightmare, obviously. He gripped the cold enamel of the basin hard enough to turn his knuckles white and he shut his eyes, willing himself to wake up. When he opened his eyes again, the woman in the mirror did exactly the same.

The woman in the mirror had high cheekbones, and deep-set, long-lashed dark brown eyes, and her face was framed with a ragged fall of chin-length hair that looked like she'd slept all night on her head or something. The woman in the mirror looked a little like Xisca, but mostly a lot like - like _Rafa_.

Rafa put up a hand and watched the mirror-woman do the same, traced the fullness of her lips and felt the light touch on his own. He tucked the unruly hair back behind his ears and the mirror-woman did the same. They shared matching expressions of confusion, tinged with growing horror and dawning comprehension.

"I think," Rafa said, hearing the words trip out in a low but unmistakeably female voice. "I think I am a woman."

The mirror-woman, mirror-Rafa, stared back at him with wide, shocked eyes. "This is a problem," they said.

-

Rafa wished Xisca were here, mostly so that he could borrow some of her clothes. In her absence, he found a Nike t-shirt that hung as loose as a dress on his new, slighter frame, and a pair of shorts that stayed up so long as he pulled the drawstring as tight as it would go. A pair of flip-flops completed the ensemble. Fortunately, even as a woman he had unreasonably large feet.

It was only when he let himself out of the room that he realised the problem, which was that he looked like someone on a morning-after walk of shame. Down the hallway a couple cast glances his way, smirking amusement at each other. He smiled awkwardly at them and hoped to God that they didn't have cameraphones and blogs. Their low chattering followed him down the hallway as he made his escape, shuffling in his oversized flip-flops while the drawstring shorts rode dangerously low on his hips.

He got to the elevators and paused. Where the hell was he going to go?

He only knew one other person in this hotel, and damn if he was going to venture out of the hotel looking like a tragic victim of the morning-afters. There really was nothing else to do. He was going to have to go to Roger Federer.

-

It was a short elevator ride up to the penthouse suite, which Rafa spent fidgeting with his hair and his clothes, and trying to work out what he was going to tell Roger to make him believe that he was in fact Rafael Nadal, and not some crazy stalkerish fan who'd managed to raid Rafa's laundry basket. His mind - pretty understandably, Rafa felt - drew a blank. He wondered if anyone had ever had to make a similar explanation, and found himself hoping not. A world in which this was anything approaching normal was not one in which he was comfortable living.

The elevator ride was far, far too short to come up with any line remotely cooler than 'I woke up this morning with breasts and a vagina, help me', and so Rafa found himself standing outside Roger's hotel room door, his mind blank, watching himself rap the knuckles of his oddly delicate hand against the pristine white.

After a short pause, Roger opened the door. His hair was a little damp from the shower, falling in loose curls across his forehead. Rafa's mouth went dry. "Hello?"

"Uh," Rafa said, cleverly. "Hello, Roger."

Roger furrowed his brows. He narrowed the gap of the open door just a little. "Hi. Do I know you?"

"Okay, this is the thing," Rafa said, "you will not believe me maybe, but I am Rafa. I wake up this morning and I am -" he gestured down at himself, the breasts and the feminine curve of his hips "- a woman. I do not know how this happen, but I need help."

"Uh," Roger said. "Look. I think maybe you should, uh, go and find someone who -"

"You do not believe me," Rafa said, and hey, he couldn't really blame Roger. "But please, I _am_ Rafa, I promise. You are only person who can help me."

"I don't know who you are," Roger said, to the sinking disappointment in Rafa's gut, "and I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to call the management if you don't leave."

"No wait, I can prove!" Rafa put out a hand, splayed against the door to stop Roger from shutting it in his face. He saw Roger's eyes widen a little in shock at the strength in Rafa's arm. "I can prove, I swear!"

"I'm going to get security if you don't -" Roger started to say, and Rafa cut him off with, "At the ceremony, the Australian Open, you remember, when you were upset and I leaned over to you and I say _you are my number one always, rogelio_, and no-one ever hear, and I never tell anyone! Rogelio, _I am Rafa_, I swear!"

There was a long moment of silence. Rafa kept his eyes steady on Roger's face, trying to convey as much open, honest Rafa-ness as he could while Roger's stood silently, his eyes flickering over Rafa, taking in the clothes and the body, flicking over the strange-familiar contours of his face, finally meeting Rafa's gaze, searching.

Roger's mouth dropped a little. "_Rafa_?"

Rafa practically slumped in relief. "_Si_, Roger. Is me."

-

"Okay," Roger said. "This is weird."

Rafa was tucked into a comfortable armchair, his knees drawn up underneath the voluminous t-shirt while he worried at a stray bit of skin next to his nail. "You don't need to tell me about it," he says.

"You look," Roger said, making a vague sweeping gesture that encompassed Rafa from head to foot. "You look like you, but a girl. It's weird, you know?"

"I know. I just glad is you and not Feli or Nando who see me like this. They would take pictures for sure, I never live it down."

"You look," Roger tried again. "You look - good. Rafa."

And Rafa was pretty sure that would make anyone blush, man or woman.

-

Roger found him some of Mirka's clothes; her old ones, he said, that she won't miss, just a plain white tank top and pink cardigan, and jeans. Mirka was bigger than Rafa, but Rafa was broad at the shoulders and hips and all toned muscle in his arms and thighs, so the fit turned out to be pretty decent. Mirka was a lot shorter than Rafa even as a woman, though, and it was her trousers that were the real problem, hugging tightly to Rafa's muscled calves where they should skim lower at the ankle. Rafa was more developed than Mirka in other areas, too.

"Does this make my ass look big?" Rafa complained, angling round to check where the fabric clung tightly to his curves.

"Yes," said Roger, and damn him, he was actually giggling.

"You are bad man," Rafa scolded, pinching the trousers like he could make them fit with sheer force of will.

"Look, here, wear a skirt," Roger said, holding out a slip of silky material for Rafa to take.

"No!" Rafa said. "No! I am not a woman! I draw the line at skirts!"

"Rafa, you either wear a skirt or you're going to get arrested for public indecency in those trousers."

Rafa snatched at the skirt. "You are a bad bad man, Roger Federer."

"Uh huh. Don't forget to shave your legs, Rafaella," said Roger, laughing as he ducked the balled-up trousers tossed with force and deadly accuracy from the bathroom.

-

In women's clothes, the differences in Rafa's body were even more pronounced. Roger's bathroom had a great big mirror on one wall, and Rafa stood and stared at himself in Mirka's borrowed clothes. The bits that he recognised and the bits that he didn't, mingling together. His feet still pale compared to his tanned legs, oddly sensitive after the shaving (stinging in places where he'd cut himself), the skirt skimming his knees where the familiar pale tape-marks were evident; the newly exaggerated curve of his hips in the skirt and the tank top stretched over his flat stomach and over the gentle, entirely alien and not-a-little horrifying swell of breasts on his chest, the cardigan's soft material clinging to the toned muscles of his arms. And his face, with its features subtly altered into something that was at once strange and strangely familiar, framed by the fall of his hair.

There was a gentle knock on the door. "Rafa, are you done?"

"Si," Rafa called, and it was easier, now, to believe that that throaty, feminine voice was really coming from him. "You can come in."

Roger let himself in. "This is all so strange," he said, looking at Rafa.

"I know. I don't know what to do," Rafa said. Roger came and stood next to him. Their reflections together in the mirror made everything seem even stranger. Had Roger always looked so masculine?

"We should enter you in the women's draw," said Roger. "Look at your muscles. You'd take out the Williams sisters, no problems."

Rafa snorted, and swiped at Roger, and Roger caught his hand and laced their fingers together tightly.

"It's going to be okay," Roger said, even though Rafa was somehow a woman and standing barefoot in Roger's bathroom wearing Roger's girlfriend's old clothes. Roger squeezed Rafa's hand a little, holding Rafa's gaze in the bathroom mirror, and somehow, Rafa sort of believed him.


End file.
